


it's your final destination

by x (ordinary)



Series: Ravenous [1]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Death, Enemies, Forced Orgasm, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Obsession, Obsessive Behavior, Other, POV Second Person, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Reader-Insert, Respawning, Stream of Consciousness, They die and come back! death is trivialized, Unhealthy Relationships, not even enemies to lovers. just enemies, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23860306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: I want to be there when you learn the cost of desire.--Revenant is not nice.Neither are you.
Relationships: Revenant (Apex Legends)/Reader
Series: Ravenous [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1832815
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	it's your final destination

**Author's Note:**

> quote is from want by recoil, which is very good. title from kim petras - wrong turn from her turn off the light album, which is also very good.
> 
> please mind the tags!
> 
> special thanks to my bro who let me rant and rave in the DMs you the real mvp. you know who you are

**1.**

You get to kill anyone you want, any time you want. It's in your nature. It'd be in your blood, if you had any left.

Now, you're just a facsimile of a man. Or is it the man that's vestigial?

Either way, you've got your _urges_. It's like your own little cycle of life.

The desire to kill. _(A directive.)_ The pleasure from it. _(A programmed reaction.)_ You've got to kill to feel good and it feels good to kill. _(A feedback loop.)_

You've had your revenge, now it's time for the autopilot to kick in. It's been driving itself for two hundred and eighty eight fucking years, what's a few more?

What does it matter that it's as fulfilling as eating sand?

**2.**

Weeks pass, then months.

You are stir crazy in your skin that is not skin.

You are stir crazy and fury leaks from the hole in your _head_ where you _know_ what you Are and what you Aren't.

The games are good for that. No one treats you like something that you Aren't. In the games, you get to set your own expectations and rack up the kills, every one just as vicious as the last. But as it turns out, in the games you're not that special. Everyone's a boogeyman when it comes down to the wire. Everyone dies-- for at least a little while-- in the ring.

Every time someone still living drops, you watch the life leave their eyes and crave it like a selkie does their missing skin.

Hah.

Skin.

**i.**

Holding Revenant's attention is a horror show. It is drenched in blood and drowned in gore, it is casual cruelty and malicious intent-- but that's okay. 

More than okay, really, because _your_ attention isn't much better.

Loathing is what makes you _thrive_ and boy, if his isn't visceral then you don't know the meaning of the word. There is nothing apathetic about his murder, nothing _dispassionate_. He would be a man possessed if he were still a man, but now...

Well. You don't know _what_ he is, and that's fascinating.

You think about it when you blow his head off with a shotgun on the train, reducing him to sparking wires and shrapnel before his death box pops. You think about it when he guts you like a fish in lava fissure before dropping your dying body into the magma below.

When he's on your team and _screams_ when he falls from the drop ship, fueled by hatred turned momentarily inwards. Sharp like daggers. Sharp like a prowler's full mouth of teeth. Sharp like hot. Black. Rage.

**_Why can't I just die already._ **

**ii.**

He says it enough-- not often, but enough-- that you let yourself slip. This time, when he lands, you clap him on the shoulder before deliberately letting your fingers slide down his spine, tracing it until they reach the small of his back. The back that you have broken into parts and sparks so many, many times. Its metal is cold like ice against your callouses, and your smile is lascivious as you offer him, perhaps, a _little_ death instead.

He freezes.

The falter in him is infinitesimal, but you're looking for it. _Hungry_ for it. The hesitation makes you wonder if anyone else has propositioned him so blatantly after joining the games. If they've seen him as a stove to put their hand on. A pike to fall on in self-sacrifice. A _tool_ to use for a quick death wish.

You all have groupies. It's the name of the game. You're very sure, though, that he doesn't engage with his. They are insignificant. Worms already trampled after rain. 

His eyes-- glowing and yellow and _empty_ \-- swing to you for just a crystallized moment before he snarls and turns away, but you're not fooled.

A seed has been planted, and you've always been very patient. It doesn't matter that you've only ever had a black thumb when you're trying to let something fester rather than grow.

**iii.**

He notices you, after that. The way that you notice him.

Unkindly.

**3.**

That. Fucking. _Bitch_.

**iv.**

You target him specifically, for fun and for profit. You make the kills _last,_ because you want to see what it's like when the light finally dies in a weapon made to kill.

You delay your executions. You shoot to maim, not to kill. 

Sometimes you pay the price for your arrogance but even so, you do not show him your neck, only your teeth. You do not beg for mercy when he decides to break your ribs or put a bullet in your belly rather than your chest because the copper on your tongue and the exquisite pain of death tastes like _winning_.

You chase the high of that first time he missed a step. 

At the top of the canyon overlooking skyhook, you lovingly cradle his head from behind and press the wingman beneath his metal jaw and slide your hand across his chest in a mockery of a caress.

You tell him, voice warm like syrup: Offer's still open, killer. 

Then you pull the trigger.

**4.**

You know _when_ they start to _matter_ , but you don't know the _why_. It's disgusting, the way you let yourself linger when separating them from their life.

You've always been quick, efficient. It's part of the _job_. Cutting a path through Hammond was dotted by the special occasions where you let yourself be leisurely, to take your time.

To let yourself have a little drawn out death, as a treat.

The games don't permit that kind of tarrying. Not if you want to win-- especially when it's a fucking insult any time you _don't--_ but they don't seem to get the memo. They let their whims overtake them with the ephemeral nature that comes with being human, fixating on one thing and one thing alone.

You.

Killing, you. Taunting, you. 

Chasing, you.

(Desiring, you.)

Drawing your ire makes them laugh, blood burbling in their throat as they drown in it. Their eyes mock you: I know you. I _have_ you. 

You are chasing a fix you can't name. Your wires are crossed. You used to never mix business with pleasure, but now there's no difference. Reconciliation is impossible.

All you know is you want more and more _and more--_ and what's immortality good for if you can't _give in a little?_

**v.**

It feels good, to awaken something in him that's long gone dormant. He plays cat and mouse with the other legends, but you can convince him to play with his food. With you. 

You do not think to promise him that you'll be different. He has killed thousands and will kill thousands more. He is a machine. He will walk long after you have returned to the loam beneath his feet. He will outlast you, but that doesn't mean you can't show him a hell of a time. 

Every scuffle gets uglier than the last, building to a fever pitch. It's going to be beautiful. You've got two things: clever fingers, and a plan.

**vi.**

The vault doors stay open as you both crash into the looted shelves. His right hand is busted, you've got a limp in your left leg. Other squads are halfway across the map-- he'd chased you from the second you fell from the dropship, and through the ensuing fight and two third parties, you two are the last ones standing.

Again.

How convenient.

(You think about how you ignored Mirage's warnings that there was another squad. You think about him abandoning Octane, pursuing you with the single-minded intensity of a dog chasing a bone.

You think about him a lot.)

He's close enough for you to smell oil and ozone and the copper scent of your own blood. He would be close enough to taste his breath, if he had any, but that makes it all the better. He is not a human. You do not want him to be, that would be boring. That would be beside the point.

Dots of ringed gold two are inches away from your _fucking_ face, and he holds you by the throat up against a rocky wall. Dark spots dot your vision and the world goes out from under you, but you've been there, done that. You know what it feels like to die from asphyxiation, and your gun may be loose in your hand, _but it's still in your hand._

You put two bullets into the metal joint that would be a kneecap, pop pop with the hammerpoint, and down you both go. Rolling around in the dirt like animals, feral and ugly.

He breaks one of your teeth and you blast open his breastplate. He burns you from hip to sternum with the screeching howl of a havoc. Pieces of you both fall away, your identities sloughing off like unwanted skin. You become an ouroboros together, the creature fated to consume its own tail. You think, in a manic moment, that if he _were_ human you would want to eat. Him. Alive.

**5.**

They must be in excruciating pain, from the way their pupils swallow up their irises, from the way a whistling wheeze has crept its way into their labored breathing. Even still, they straddle you with dirt-stained knees, mouth drooling red all over your sparking chassis. 

You are a simulacrum, you are a _thing_ masquerading as a vague human, and yet they let you keep _pain_. It is important, you know, to know _how_ to hurt in order to more effectively let you inflict it.

They just don't let it stop you.

Your synapses aren't synapses, but you still _feel_ their hand digging around in your chest. They lovingly trace the lines of your innards, clean and chrome and almost too hot to touch. They're _looking_ for something and you don't know what. Beneath them, you writhe.

Your good arm has no hand, and your bad arm is twisted three hundred and eight degrees in its socket, useless. 

You do not have a heart that pounds, you do not have a pulse to thunder in your ears. You do not have _anything_ , until--

**vii.**

Your red, sticky fingers nudge up against something cool and thrumming and bingo, jackpot, x marks the spot. There's the goods, but even when he's down, you should never count Revenant as out. He is far from docile as you rifle around inside of him, but you know what you're dealing with. He is _sharp_. He is a weapon you are _bending_ to your _will_. He is a bomb pointed right at you, a painted target on your forehead. You will follow him to the ends of the galaxy, if you don't drag him there yourself.

You _scream_ because his broken hand is attached to a very functional arm, and he drives the twisted metal of it into the ragged stab wound in your thigh, convulsing as your fingers tighten around that cold, cold thing that is a power source lurking beneath the hull of your favorite man made machine, knocking it loose.

It stinks of ozone, more than before, and it's so _cold_. You think your fingers might get _frostbite_ from it, numb as they are, but it's worth it. He shudders and twitches in the artificial way that things made of metal do when they're overwhelmed. He is experiencing something painful and holy and new. You wrench the scrap of his mangled thumb out of your oozing leg. There is so much blood around you both-- streaks of red, droplets sprayed everywhere. You feel faint from it, but it doesn't matter. There are torn ligaments inside you. You are dying, and it doesn't matter. You'll respawn soon, as surely as he will, and the giddy eroticism of watching Revenant be subsumed by pleasure or something like it has you entranced.

You cup his cold, twitching, metal face with sanguine stained hands.

Isn't it interesting, you ask, eyes alight with your own brand of casual cruelty, tone mocking as his whole body convulses. As he gives in.

**6.**

They mock you but it sounds like static, fuzzy and distant. You feel distant from your body-- it's not really _your_ body, is it now? It's just _a_ body, one they've put you in, again and again. New body, new you. Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat. 

You are trapped in a metamorphosis, stuck between stages in slow motion. They are bleeding out on top of you, they are holding onto you as though you were something holy. There is a distinct knowledge now acquired, of what it feels like to careen off course like a ship with one engine out. You are not alive nor are you dead: you exist in a state that bridges the before of this reality with the after. It is different, you know, because you are under someone else's watch. Half of it is the humiliation of coming undone before the eyes of someone eager to destroy you with the force of their intent adoration. You are _powerless_ beneath their seething hatred, and the knowledge that you are at their mercy is eroticism incarnate.

Because that yawning, cavernous abyss inside of you? The one that's been kicking around since you woke up from your waking nightmare?

It's momentarily filled.

You do not fit together neatly. This is no tab a into socket b. They were never meant to insinuate themselves into your orbit, never meant for them to look you in the eye before sticking their hand into an active meat grinder just to get your reaction. 

They had promised you a little death, you remember. It is distant, a thousand miles away as the echo of their drawl rings in your mind on repeat in increasingly high pitched tones. Your brain-- "brain", hah-- is full of noise, an effervescent hum that supersedes everything, even their words uttered unto you like prayers. 

This is a transformation, a culmination is approaching. The event horizon. A noiseless maelstrom and fading vision, whirring and crackling. You are close. You are so, so close to something that is ripping you into pieces, shredded paper, shredded flesh, splintering bone and a cacophony of mechanical death, and--

**viii.**

It's remarkable. You've never been so aroused as now, watching him come literally apart at the seams. All circuits firing, and failing. His eyes flicker and dim down into muddy amber and then darkness. His body thrums like an engine pushed too hard, something in there rattles from where you've done your damage. Chasing the coattails of cascading system failures, you can tell he's so, so close. 

To what?

Completion, if dying can be called that. An end that is not the end. A witnessed unraveling.

He will be Different, after this, and that's enticing, addictive. It's so hard to be patient, but you know you must. You grind down on his thigh, chasing friction that hardly matters as your eyes stay locked on him, him, him.

Revenant thrashes one last time before you deliberately shoot him point blank before he's _done._

He drops like a marionette with cut strings and you slump down over the box that would have been a corpse, laughing through your own pain, hysterical and pleased with yourself. 

Did he think it would _really_ be that easy? Did he really think you'd let him get what he _needed_ without knowing the cost of desire?

Your vision darkens and your breathing slows. 

Next time, you think, on the verge of your own demise with lips split wide into a cruel grin that is more of a grimace.

Next time, you might let him come.

**Author's Note:**

> i owe uhh like a billion things and exist in a series of drafts perpetually close to being deleted but revenant fucking go brrrrrr
> 
> please grant me kindness for my vague robot mechanics


End file.
